


Cadenza: Falling

by ProfessorDrarry



Series: Drarry One Shot [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But what is harry, Draco is a badass cello player, M/M, Music AU, Post Hogwarts AU, other than along for the ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: “You weren’t,” Harry accused.Draco hesitated. “And if I wasn’t?”“Well,” Harry finished sadly. “That is not what I signed up for.”





	Cadenza: Falling

_ Cadenza - falling - an elaborately or excessively intricate solo at the end of a performance.  _

* * *

 

He hated the Fauré the most. It's stupid languid middle sections, its opaque, obvious, attention-grabbing crescendos. They weren’t satisfying to play and they left him feeling bereft. He didn't much like Bach or Brahms either, or any pieces that sounded like playing an exam. He'd had enough of those. It’s not that they were bad, just predictable. Easy.

He almost never practised the assigned pieces; sometimes, although rarely, it showed. He'd miss an eighth note or two, fall slightly off-tempo. But it didn't matter. He did not care.

Instead, when he played at home or in a private practice room, he teased out weird, contemporary movements that he made up as he went along; they were always strange, with feeble beginnings and next-to-no logical conclusions. Long, winding paths through a melody. Bass lines that needed harmony but would never see the light of day. He'd change the keys of the pieces he did need to work on, speed through a piece desperately trying to keep things interesting.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was laziness born out of boredom. He also knew, unfortunately, that everyone was too scared of ‘TATSUYA’ to do a thing about it. He didn't mind the fear. He'd worked hard to earn his reputation, a begrudging sort of respect that was annoyingly accompanied by talent. People wanted to fight him, to ignore his ludicrous expectations, to tell him he was out if he didn’t practice, but he was too good. It had been the theme of his whole life. There had only ever been one person who had truly defied him, but that was hardly an obstacle now.

Regardless of how or why, the fact remained, ‘Tatsuya’ was a hit. By the time he'd arrived at the Swansea Philharmonic (though he wasn't sure how they'd earned the name), he’d had enough names, letters, and accolades behind his one-word pseudonym that they'd have hired him on the spot. No questions asked. But he'd dutifully auditioned, some Saint-Saens concerto he could have played while sleeping, and immediately named first chair. No one had even been angry about it.

So for six months, he’d been on an endless roll of concert after concert, in an isolated chair with a lacklustre conductor who wasn’t exciting to play for, and he was fucking bored.

Even though the orchestra was small, they had a confusingly busy schedule, and he spent far too much time on stage for his liking. He'd rather have been hidden away, in his subsidised flat, composing and generally not giving a fuck anymore. It had been the plan. Instead, this life he had chosen had accidentally made him famous, made him into a character to be played every moment of every day.

He hated it, but he’d also created it; he was, unfortunately,  _stuck_.

* * *

 

The leaflet had been pretty boring, by advertising standards. The sheen had worn off the fancy new performer in Wales by the time it had arrived on his stoop. They’d stopped putting money into glossy paper or full colour.

The one he received had very little actual information contained within its boring borders. Swansea Philharmonic, a date. The word “TATSUYA” in large script across the majority of the space. He wasn’t sure what made him pick up the phone and order a ticket for Saturday's matinee at The Grand, and only once he hung up did he realise that he hadn’t actually left his flat in well over two weeks.

Or that he didn’t even own a suit.

Of course, none of that really mattered at this point. He  _had_ left his flat, and he  _had_ paid for a ticket, and he  _was_ in fact, about to attend his first concert in two years.

Now that he was standing at the will-call window, embarrassed about his hair and his tattered leather shoes and his too-small blaser, he wanted nothing more than to go back to the moment that had led him here; the sudden frenzy of opening the windows in the stifling flat. Subsequently noticing how stale and dusty everything was, and then cleaning in a wild tumult until he found the mail.

“Um, sir?” The young girl at the counter asked again. He shook his head back to the present and gave his name haltingly, speech becoming difficult. She was young and patient, and offered a smile as she handed him his ticket.

“A very good seat,” she said cheerily. “Have you seen him yet? Just wait, you’ll enjoy every moment. I don’t know how they manage to keep him, honestly. World class musician like Tatsuya, but enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Er, thanks,” he mumbled back, already walking away towards the theatre doors and an overly friendly usher.

Settled in his seat just as the orchestra started their warm-up, he really wanted to flee. What had possessed him, honestly, to even leave the house? He was shaking, jittery and uncomfortable as people flooded into the seats beside him.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had really enjoyed this. The gentle hum of conversation that filled the beautiful acoustics of a theatre. The tingle of excitement and the floating darkness of a half-lit, cavernous space. It had been exciting, in his early adulthood. He liked to pretend that it was because he’d never been to a show until the age of twenty, that he loved the drama of it all and had simply never had the chance to fall in love with music. He told himself it was a long-buried passion.

Mostly because the other reason was too painful to put into words. Mostly because the other reason why he loved the orchestra was gone.

He was on the verge of leaving, when right on schedule, the house lights went down, and the conductor walked out to bow to his applause, and like a fierce wave of calm, every concerned, anxious thought left him. He relaxed into his seat as his chest deflated, as tears of relief begged to fall.

Concerts, he remembered, were concerts. He could do this; he could immerse himself in music, just as he had done for ten years before all this, and forget the rest of it in this moment of safe love.

He could calmly let himself join the emotions of the piece; his heart would pound in time to the timpani, his breathing would fall in line with the soaring heights of the flutes, his head would move with the languid lines of the strings. For just a little while, he could be free.

The empty chair at the edge of the stage loomed large and stark as he drew his focus back to the room. There was no mistaking that this was a show, a night for highlighting one artist, and the lingering excitement returned to him at last.

The first piece was beautiful, something he didn’t recognise, modern and sleek, but the mysterious soloist did not appear. Nor did they arrive for the second piece, up-tempo and joyful, almost like film music, but with a classical edge. Piece after piece until the house lights came on for the interval and Harry was forced back to reality as people swarmed around again.

Finally, the lights went down, the maestro returned, gestured at the side of the stage and waited.

A man, all in black with several sleek blonde braids tightly coiled against his head and tied neatly down his back, marched silently and awkwardly to his chair. He held a red-tinged cello across his body, and he bowed stiffly before sitting down and lifting it to his shoulder, bow at the ready, pale hands steady and sure.

The instrument would have been enough, but the hands were what stopped one audience member’s heart cold.

* * *

 

He waited by the stage door for over an hour. Some musicians left in twos and threes, some in larger, chatty packs. The entire percussion section left together. The wait was long, but he was patient despite being out of practice. He remembered how this went. Cleanup, notes on the show, instrument care. Some fled the scene instantly, too used to the hustle to care much about the afterglow. Wanting to escape the performance space as soon as possible. But others? Others lingered. Others rested in the silence of the hall, which always seemed dramatic after all the noise. Some waxed bows or tuned one last time for no real reason or adjusted valves or reeds. Fixed problems while they remembered the small irritations of the day.

The person he waited for lingered longest, always played a little more, and wandered a little longer; but he was in this building, of that there was no doubt.

So waiting was easy.

Finally, the door swung open, and a case wheeled out before the owner followed, heaving a sigh. A familiar sigh, of yearning mixed with satisfaction, a juxtaposition that was just one of many. Faced with the sigh, his words caught for a moment. He almost missed his chance.

“Tatsuya?” he said finally, reading correctly the blonde shock of hair.

“Listen, press is on Tuesday and —” swinging his head, a cellist stopped dead. “Harry?” he murmured reverently, pain settling between his eyebrows in their well-carved furrow, a line that only just barely smoothed itself out when at rest. They were older, and wrinkles were harder to hide.

“Tatsuya, really ?” Harry repeated with a grimace. “Little on the nose don't you think? I think you'd be in trouble, calling yourself Dragon on stage. So dramatic. Unnecessary.”

There was a derisive snort and he rested his instrument on the ground. “Not as much trouble as you,” Draco spat. “I can tell just by looking at that you aren't playing, are you?”

“I started too late,” Harry murmured, the fight already leaving him. He was, as usual, just tired. “There was no point continuing. It wasn’t going to amount to anything.”

“Mari didn't think so,” Draco returned.

“I thought you were never coming back to England,” Harry replied, ignoring him.

“I didn't,” Draco said with a coy smile. “We’re in Wales. Or didn’t you know?”

They studied each other cautiously; words left unsaid was new territory for them, and they were navigating it badly. Rash, harsh, angry, passionate. Those were the pins on their roadmap.

“I knew it was you right away,” Harry said finally, drawing in a breath as he spoke.

“Well, I didn't exactly think I'd have to hide from you in Swansea,” Draco retorted. Once again, Harry ignored it. He had a set of things he wanted to say, and he hadn’t paused to consider reactions. He decided his best course of action was to follow his script.

“You're still playing it,” he said, glancing at the instrument case.

Draco sighed and looked down at the cello. He knelt carefully in his suit and popped open the many latches, a sound familiar and comforting for a moment as it echoed around Harry in the empty alleyway. Draco pulled the instrument up by the neck and swung it carefully until Harry could see the back. He closed his eyes to the sight.

He didn't need to see the cello to know that the three-foot long gash on the back was deep and serpentine, ethereal because it wasn't made by hand. It had magic hewed into its jagged edge, irreparable damage sent from a careless wand.

“It's not really there,” Draco explained thickly, his voice quiet as he put the instrument back. “I had the panel removed from the old cello and placed over the new one. The craftsman thought I was mental.”

“I was angry,” Harry said, long overdue apology seeping into his tone, even if the word was never spoken.

“You were right,” Draco shrugged.

It didn’t sound like forgiveness. He didn’t try and make it feel that way, either.

“Doesn't change much,” Harry acknowledged.

“It can't,” Draco said, standing and lifting the case again.

Harry nodded and began to walk away.

“You should be playing,” Draco called after him.

“You sounded beautiful tonight,” Harry responded, not turning around.

* * *

 

When Harry finally returned home that evening, it was late and dark but he didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, he used the silent darkness to pause his aching head. Sitting down beside his bed, he took a deep breath and reached beneath the depths.

The object he was looking for was sitting exactly where he’d left it, and it fell easily into his hands. The long, thin case was as intimidatingly small as it had always felt, and the clasps clicked open in a frighteningly easy sort of way, as though the instrument had been waiting for him to remember, waiting for him to just breach it’s depths, rescue it from the purple velvet, and try again.

He remembered everything about this oboe, but the opening of the case disturbed the ticket stubs, which he had actually completely forgotten about; as the bits of paper fell to the ground like garish oversized confetti, snips of conversation from years past came with it and bounced about the darkened room.

 

_ “I have news,” Draco said quietly. _

_ Harry looked at him, standing quickly. “You got in,” he exploded. _

_ Draco smiled a small, embarrassed smile. “Dunno what you’re so happy about, Potter. I have to go live in Japan.” _

_ “Yeah, to work with THE GREATEST TEACHER in the world. Draco, that’s… fuck, congratulations,” Harry said, hugging Draco against his will, the blonde man stiffening slightly. _

_ “It’s going to be hard,” Draco said when he was released _

_ “Well, you’re no stranger to hard… erm, to difficult things. You’ll be fine.” _

_ “It’s a new country,” Draco added. “I won’t know anyone.” _

_ “You’ll be fine, Draco. You aren’t seriously considering turning it down?” Harry asked, baffled. “I won’t let you do that.” _

_“No,” Draco huffed. “No, but… look, you know how you said I had to start just…I am supposed to just do the things I want to do from now on, right?”_

_ Harry nodded. _

_ “Well,” Draco continued, inhaling deeply. “I want you to come with me.” _

_ Harry stared. _

_ “I know we’ve only been dating for six months, and I know it’s a year in a far-off country, and I know it’s a lot to ask so—“ _

_ “Yes,” Harry interrupted. _

_ “But—“ _

_ “Yes,” Harry repeated. _

_ —xx— _

_ “And your boyfriend?” Yamari asked. “What does he play?” _

_ Draco laughed, not meanly, but laughter nonetheless. _

_“He doesn’t,” Draco shrugged. “He’s...well, he was a sports lad.”_

_ “Oy!” Harry laughed. “So were you! It’s true, though. I don’t play anything.” _

_ “A shame. You should. Mari, my daughter? She is looking for new students. She teaches flute and oboe, English horn when forced. She needs practice with beginners, if you are interested.” _

_ “I could try?” Harry mused. _

_ Draco just laughed him out of the room. _

_ —xx— _

_ “Are you nervous?” Draco grinned. _

_ “Yes,” Harry replied with a grimace. “You aren’t allowed to make fun. This is ludicrous.” _

_ “It’s just a recital, Hare.” _

_ “Psh, ‘just’. Whatever. Shut up. You’ve been doing this forever.” _

_ Draco smiled, a sly, foxy thing that sent Harry into a near painful flutter of longing. “I could help, you know? I know how to make you relax.” _

_ —xx— _

_ “I thought it was only one more week,” Harry said through gritted teeth. _

_ “It was. It got extended. Are we fighting about this?” Draco replied cautiously. _

_ “No,” Harry replied. “We aren’t fighting over the concert schedule. You, playing a lot? That’s what I signed up for.” _

_ “What are we fighting over, then?” Draco asked with a sigh. _

_“Never,” Harry repeated. “You are never going back. That’s what you said.”_

_ “God Harry,” Draco huffed. “You realise you don’t have to be so literal with everything, right? I was exaggerating.” _

_ “You weren’t,” Harry accused. _

_ Draco hesitated. “And if I wasn’t?” _

_“Well,” Harry finished sadly. “That is not what I signed up for.”_

—xx—

Harry had absently been clicking piece after piece of the instrument in front of him together, and by the time he shook his head out of the fog of the past, he had an oboe in hand, ready to play. There was an ancient but unused reed sitting in its little plastic box, the last of three purchased before he’d left Asia. He sighed to himself and pulled it out, stuck it in his mouth harshly. A small voice in his head chastised him for not properly soaking it first, not even trying to follow what he’d been taught.

“Oh shut up,” he said out loud to himself, pulling the reed from his mouth to irrationally shout in the darkness. “I hardly think this is going to go well enough for me to be worrying about reed longevity or tone.”

Surprising everyone, though most especially himself, playing oboe had been a hidden talent; Mari, a young and optimistic teacher, had simply  _expected_ him to enjoy it, and so, ludicrously, he had. He’d picked up the tricky instrument like he'd been playing since infancy. He loved it, in fact. It was rigorous and difficult, hard to get right.

Once he'd figured out that reading music was very much his biggest challenge, he'd forced Draco to help him by shouting the notes at him as he played. It worked beautifully, the competitive side of their relationship forcing him to try, and usually, he had them both in stitches by the end of a rehearsal.

Those had been happy months. Trying, exhausting, but satisfying and full of joy. Draco was at the studio so long each day that by the time he got home, he wanted nothing more than to curl up against Harry and doze. Harry read to him, children's stories and fairytales and books they'd both missed while in school. No one was there to judge them, so they didn't judge themselves.

Was he trying to recapture that person? Even he didn’t know.

Whatever the reason, he was here, holding cold plastic in the darkness of his flat, he forced his mouth into the rusty tangle of something approaching embouchure and made a sound that was more like a dying duck than a note. It felt appropriate, the sound echoing the final months. The splintered wood of a very beautiful cello. The broken down remnants of a relationship that everyone had said was doomed well before the dark ever actually found them.

For an hour or so, and then for days after that, Harry tried earnestly to coax some music out of the oboe in his hands; it was the answer, but to a question he couldn't pin down. He didn’t understand why, but it was essential that he remembered how a melody went.

His lips bled, and his fingers ached. He forgot to sleep, ate only sporadically.  

The thud of something falling through his never-used letterbox coincided with the splitting of his reed, and he sat staring at the shattered wood as though he didn’t understand what had happened.

The envelope looked innocuous at first, suspicious at second glance. Unmarked, light and thin. Inside, a single concert ticket and a scrap of a programme with a note. A note written in a hand that tore at his senses. A hand that had so often scrawled his name, just like this;  _Harry, remember your lunch. Harry, the dentist called. Harry, I invited people round for dinner, do you have time to clean the kitchen._

_ Harry, I love you. _

These words, scribbled quickly here, were far more sinister.

 _Harry,_  they read, _ just come._

 

As always, there was no signature; because, as always, there was no question of who it was from.

The rest of the week, he simply waited. He did not go find a new reed. He did not attempt to change anything about himself. He did not go buy a suit. Instead, Harry paced. He paced back and forth between the kitchen, where he’d pinned the ticket with the note, where he stared at the blazing summer sky and cursed its simplicity.

He went, of course. There was never really an alternative despite his restlessness.

Waiting until the last possible moment, he marched into the theatre and straight to his seat; an aisle, in the middle. Perfect for fleeing;  _perfect for_ escape _._  It had been selected with great care.

He waited patiently, emotions already frayed, through four beautiful orchestral numbers. His ear sought out the very skilled oboe player without realising, and he was on the edge of his seat again as Tatsuya took to stage. The conductor, resplendent in black tails that had clearly been purchased recently, turned to face his audience.

“It is with a note of sadness and regret that I announce that this will the be last performance by our guest performer, Tatsuya,” the man began. “He has decided it is time to take his talent to a new stage.”

Draco bowed. He was standing with his instrument in a deep red suit, hair still braided and eyes dark, even from here. He hadn’t been sleeping; Harry knew the feeling.

“As is tradition in my orchestra,” the conductor continued. “We have given the choice of the final performance to the artist. It has been a great honour to have him here with us.”

“I am told,” the conductor continued. “That this piece is an original composition.”

Harry’s heart stopped beating. Surely, not.

“And will feature the undervalued pairing between cello and oboe,” the conductor finished. “Apparently, the piece remains untitled, so we are invited to make one up ourselves. Without further ado,  _Tatsuya_  .”

Harry inhaled and did not breathe out as the first notes rang out.

—xx—

_ “I dunno, I suppose it’s okay,” Harry shrugged. _

_ “Are you kidding? It’s beautiful. It just needs...something,” Draco said excitedly, running to his instrument in its stand. He pulled it out, the speed of a true professional as he sat and stared at Harry, thinking. “Play me the line again…” _

_ An hour later, it was done. _

_ “We should give it a title,” Harry grinned. No one would ever hear it. He decided to just be happy. He didn’t think he knew enough to have written something down, but there it was in front of him. _

_ “Yeah,” Draco grinned back. “Don’t think too hard. It’ll come to you.” _

—xx—

Harry sat listening, but not breathing, unable to think, unable to feel.

His heart pounded and worked overtime as the music fluttered and soared around him. Could the sound be enough to mend? Could it be enough to forgive?

As the final crescendo resonated, applause and standing ovation, he leapt from his seat. He couldn’t risk the stage door. Not this time.

He snuck his way backstage, pacing again as he waited for Draco to leave the stage; he had to act fast. There would be calls for an encore. There always were.

He saw Harry before Harry saw him, and the perfection of that happening knocked Harry into action.

“Second chances,” he gasped, stopping short in a panicked jog, not daring to go closer. “That’s the name of the piece. Second chances.”

Draco stared at him. He was nearly empty-handed; he must have left the cumbersome instrument in the wings. He fiddled with his bow and stared at the floor. Harry waited. He, after all, had had forty-seven bars to get used to the idea.

Finally, Draco looked up at him; it was a clever gaze, well-composed and expertly crafted. Harry saw straight through it, as though the years had not passed them by. Draco watched Harry’s face break open, sensing victory, and smiled a coy smile.

“See,” Draco said eventually. “I told you it would come to you eventually.

Oboe and cello are not a common pairing; despite their complementary sounds and common key signature, people often can not see past their differences. They fall short of being the expected, and therefore, composers did not try to break them of their molds. The instruments, however, swung perfectly into a harmonious place. When given half the chance, they fit and echoed each other beautifully, holding down melodies that were complex and haunting.

If given half the chance, their balance could shed light on all the broken places until they were whole again. 


End file.
